


Quod Erat Demonstrandum

by kincaidian



Category: Cloud Atlas (2012), Cloud Atlas - All Media Types
Genre: In which poetry is made much of, M/M, and then ignored, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 10:49:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/734825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kincaidian/pseuds/kincaidian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a certain light, Frobisher seems to be carefully constructed of poetry, whereas Sixsmith most certainly does not. Outsider's perspective of the Frobisher/Sixsmith dynamic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Quod Erat Demonstrandum

It is not yet six am, and you are curled up in a claw-foot tub with your hands clasped around your legs, watching Robert shave.

One could get drunk on this alone, you muse, giddy, eyes fixed on the smooth glide of blade over skin, the long curve of Robert's neck like a swan's, the column of  his throat. Your fingers itch for the razor and the words riot about your mouth, demanding to be set free; _here, let me._

You bite your tongue and watch. It's enough, you tell yourself. You're lucky to be granted this much. You honestly can't quite believe it, being _allowed_ this degree of intimacy, encouraged, even. It seems terrible and wonderful at the same time, and you're left feeling wrong-footed and over flooded with awe.

Robert catches your eye through the reflection on the mirror and smiles and it seems quite, quite normal, so you are at a loss to explain your blush.

*

Dusk spilling in like an old lover come to call, languid and knowing, touching Robert's brow, the controlled wreck of his hair, the fierce set of his mouth. It caresses along his fingers as they dance deliberately over the keys of the piano and you are watching, as per usual, utterly enthralled.

There's a look in Robert's eyes on days like this, a look that sets your teeth on edge with anticipation. You're shifting about, uncomfortable in your own skin, until Robert looks at you and the roar in your ears dies down and you stare back, frozen in place. Robert then smiles, the faintest ghost of a smile that makes his skin glow and eyes lose their mercurial quality for the briefest of moments, and looks away, and you are left feeling mortal once more.   
*

You met Robert quite by accident -literally- nearly running over him with your bicycle. On the ground, papers strewn across the freshly-mown grass of the lawn, he had glared at you so viciously you had been taken aback, your apologies turning into half-hearted stammers as you gathered his things for him. Ignoring the hand you offered, he had stood up gracefully and immediately demanded compensation like a crack of a whip, and you had agreed without thinking. Something about his eyes, his bearing. Something resonated so deeply with you that it seemed like folly to even think to decline. Byronian about the mouth and eyes, exquisite sadness and ecstasy and you'd just. You'd.

Three months later, you are still unable to say what it was that made you follow Robert Frobisher; as if his heart were a magnet and you were made of lead.

*

Monday morning, you are trying and failing to keep your attention on the tea you're making, your eyes continually darting towards Robert's bed, just barely visible through the half-shut door.

Robert's rooms are both larger and more unkempt that yours, located on the ground floor of the front quad. It somehow seems the very epitome of hedonism and you feel your cheeks redden, imagining Robert lounging on the chairs, a robe thrown carelessly over fragile shoulders, exposing a streak of his pale chest. In your mind's eye, he is composing; forever and eternal, he composes, tone poems that shatter and break the world with their wistfulness and tragedy.

Your heart catches unbearably at the image; it makes your knees weak, and you clutch at the counter for support.

And that's when the intruder comes in.

To his credit, he looks as surprised as you are. "Who are you?" he asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

You stare, and manage to raise your eyebrows. "I," you begin, stiffly, "was invited-"

The intruder snorts. Upon inspection, he looks about your age, with fair hair and a practical brown suit, his features straight and clean, the symmetry of his face interrupted only by a lopsided twist to his mouth as he smirks infuriatingly. Everything about him screams of the material; here was a man who would never grasp the intangible beauty of a quiet morning spent sitting quietly side by side, nor the morbid darkness of a bell tolling from far off. You bristle unconsciously, before he even speaks. "Oh, you're with Frobisher. I see." and he turns around without warning, and begins rifling through Robert's cluttered desk.

"What are you doing?" you hiss, moving forward to apprehend him. You manage to grab his wrist, and he seems astonished, as if he'd forgotten you were there already. This only serves to anger you further. "You seem to know Robert, but that gives you no right to-"

"Sixsmith?"

Robert's standing in the doorway and his robe looks as if it's been tugged on haphazardly as a mere obligation. Your mind grinds to a halt. _Oh._

Distantly _,_ you are aware of your grip slackening, and of the intruder drawing away. "You stole all of my textbooks when you became obsessed with experimental physics last week, remember? I'm here to demand them back, but your guard dog apprehended me."

You rip your eyes away from the exposed line of Robert's neck and glare. Sixsmith isn't even looking at you, preoccupied with upturning Robert's table once more in search of his precious books. "I swear to God, Frobisher, if you've sold them..."

He leaves the threat unfinished, and throws a hefty glare over his shoulder. Robert, you're stunned to observe, is watching his with his eyes alight with something curiously akin to joy. "If I said I haven't," he says, and he's smiling so wide it hurts to look at, "does that mean I'm forgiven?"

_For what?_ You demand mentally, your thoughts weak and dragging, mind dazzled by Robert's smile. It's nothing like you've ever seen before;  it's sunlight and footpaths leading to the sea and waking up in the morning to feel loved.

...oh.

_Oh._

Your heart lurches. The room seems to dissolve slowly, the world spinning gently out of axis. You clutch wildly at the table, but neither of them notices.

"I thought you weren't coming back," Robert says, hushed. He sways closer towards Sixsmith, as if pulled by unseen forces. You feel ill; you can't watch this. Unforgivably, you discover that you're frozen in place, every limb refusing to coordinate and your veins filling with ice rapidly.

Sixsmith raises a single hand; touches Robert's cheek with a gentleness that seems unforced. "I wasn't going to. You had my textbooks."

You almost scream. You wonder, detachedly, whether that would make them notice you. Probably not.

Robert chuckles in surprise, and they both laugh, bodies shaking, leaning against each other.

They're still laughing when their lips slant over each other, natural, quiet. Robert's hands come up to Sixsmith's shoulders and Sixsmith idly toys with the knot on Robert's robe, kissing and kissing, until, at last, Sixsmith draws away, lips reddened and bruised.

"I plan to carry on with this," he says, even as Robert tangles a hand in his hair petulantly and attempts to drag him back down for another kiss, "and whether or not you send your admirer away while I do it is up to you entirely, Frobisher."

The mist in Robert's eyes doesn't fade, and he doesn't as much as look your way as he murmurs, "William, do be a dear and run along, would you?"

Sixsmith doesn't look triumphant as you flee, your feet coming unstuck as if you’ve the hounds of hell at your heels. You reflect that he's too practical for emotions like petty triumph.

Later, with your cock in your hand, you think of Robert playing piano in the morning light, and find yourself unable to feel betrayed.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for the fuckery with timelines, and the uncanny resemblance of the narrator to Charles Ryder. Ben Whishaw is hard to shake off once he takes root.


End file.
